Sundays
by QueenAnne
Summary: I wish every day were Sunday." When the boy next door becomes the boy in the next bedroom, Ginny and Harry find out there's much more to life than Sundays.
1. Family Ties

_Chapter one: Family Ties_  
  
The sun was rising slowly over Diagon Alley, bit by bit splashing glimmers of morning light onto the cobblestones where only a handful of witches and wizards walked. As early morning Prophet owls carried their charges, flying with a sort of puffed-up importance, to readers, a few scraggly birds also carried The Quibbler to and fro, while cats and frogs lazed in the beginning light of day.  
  
In the door to the two story, newly restored Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes shop, an owl dropping off the day's Prophet hooted softly in greeting to the small gray owl that was flying directly inside to leave a letter. Up the stairs the small gray bird flew, carried, seemingly, on the morning breeze that flew through the shop, a benefit of bewitched windows. It searched around for a swatch of red hair—any sort, really—as it considered its direct orders not to leave until the letter was left with someone. Finally, the owl flapped down to a small woman, who, in sleep, had slumped to the large desk sometime the night before.  
  
Not wanting the missive to be lost among the piles of papers around the tiny woman, the owl gently landed on her hunched shoulder and pecked carefully at her arm.  
  
"Bugh arwf, yeuh sumpid ijyt," she moaned, and rolled her head to the other side. The owl, not bothered, kept tapping her arm lightly.  
  
"Fred, George, get your arses out of here," she said, more coherently now that her mouth wasn't smothered by her sweater sleeve. Still, the pecking continued.  
  
"Charlie, go the bloody eff away, pleeeeease," she moaned in her sleep, trailing off as the blasted annoyance continued.  
  
"Bill, I swear, go to hell," she mumbled more vehemently as the ruddy tapping just would not stop.  
  
"Ron, I will" _tap_ "shove your" _tap_ "effing wand" _tap_ "up your bloody effing arse!"  
  
_Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_.  
  
"Oh my bloody hell!" she screamed, starting up from her makeshift bed, flinging her arms about and narrowly missing the now very frightened owl. "Oh, damn," she said, hazily processing the fact that it was an owl, and not a stupid sibling, that was the cause of her early morning annoyance. The owl, hooting his frustration, dropped the folded letter onto the desk and flew off through the open window.  
  
Grumbling, she opened the parchment envelope to find her mother—for all intents and purposes—waiting inside.  
  
_Ginny, my only daughter, love of my heart,  
  
If you are not at the house today on time, I will volunteer you to sit with  
Ex-Minister Fudge in the Permanent Spell Damage ward at St. Mungo's...don't   
think I won't, dearie. You be here by noon, no later, or the baby pictures may come  
out.  
  
All my love,  
Mum  
_  
Ginny's head sprang up from the letter and her eyes flicked quickly to the useless clock that hung on the office wall. The hour hand was firmly stopped at Slacking off, but the skinny minute hand was sending it ever closer to Laziness on the twin's Procrastination timepiece. Sooooo...Ginny had to squint at the clock for a moment to get her bearings, let alone see what time it was.  
  
"Slacking off..." Ginny said aloud, to no one in particular, "that's...oh, damn, it's only six o'clock. Why the heck did she send me that owl so early?" With a wince, Ginny turned around slowly and stared at the abysmal pile of files and accounts in which she was inexorably swamped, and feeling, at the same time, an extreme hate toward any and all of her brothers. But especially...  
  
"Good moooooorning, Ginny my Ginny," said Fred (George?) as he bounded up the stairs to the Weasleys' office. One look at her face was apparently not enough for Fred (now it was definitely Fred), for he bounced spryly up to her right side, looking her closely in one eye, and then popped around to the left side, making her go slightly cross-eyed and woozy. "Late night, my darling sister?" His sly grin was meant to insinuate innocence, but Ginny was no idiot.  
  
"Just once, Fred...just once, remember what I told you about quarters and how you need to keep everything organized and whatnot?"  
  
"Oy, I remember that, Gin," George said, following his twin by a few minutes. "That was right before we slipped that Peppy la Peu Pop into your coffee and you talked like a hyperactive Frenchman for a day," he reminded her with a laugh.  
  
"That was a memorable one, old chap," Fred agreed, patting George on the back like some pipe-using, smoking-jacket-wearing English colonel.  
  
"Oh, you're only 30. Do shut up, _old chap_, and remind me why I took this job, before I leave you and your files forever?" The dangerous, woman-just- awakened glint in Ginny's eyes put the correct fear in the Weasley twins' eyes, for they both took a side of her and gently led her to the comfy sofa under the window.  
  
"Now now, Ginny, I suppose mum's owl woke you up?" George said, conjuring up some steaming black coffee and slipping it into her hand. Ginny nodded, pouting into her coffee before slurping some quickly.  
  
"We need you, Ginny," Fred pleaded, looking over her head to George with a desperate call for encouragement. "After all...you're quite the only reason that we stay sane!"  
  
"And we still have all our recipes..."  
  
"...quite intact, mind you..."  
  
"And our body parts..."  
  
"...not all quite intact, but that was George's fault, not yours, dearest,"  
  
"And you make sure we make money,"  
  
"...and I do love money, Gin, I do..."  
  
"And...and...and..."  
  
"You forgot the part about saving your immortal souls from mom," came Ginny's tired and rather small-sounding voice. Above her, Fred & George enthusiastically nodded.  
  
"And for making you expand the shop to five places," she added, closing her eyes and breathing in the Arabica aroma of the coffee. More unseen nods came from the twins.  
  
"And for making sure that the Ministry didn't notice any misuse of magic, or the times you tried it on 'deserving' muggles, or when you told mom that you were sick and you really skipped dinner because yo—"  
  
"Yes, yes, we get it, Ginny," Fred interjected with a roll of his eyes.  
  
"Quite right. Well, Fred, it looks like she's up to speed."  
  
"Right well with it."  
  
"I say, old chap--"  
  
"Let's away."  
  
And they did, leaving Ginny with a cup of coffee and, still, a seemingly unmanageable pile of paperwork on her desk.  
  
"Well, if the boys can do it," she reminded the empty room, "I can too, damn it," and apparated on the spot.  
  
With the tiny whoosh still ringing ever-so-slightly in her ears, Ginny landed in the middle of her flat's front room, brushing non-existent dust off of her sweater before she gazed lazily at her bedroom, then at the overstuffed couch, and back at the bedroom. Within a minute's time she had stripped down to her jeans and chemise and was snuggled deep into the couch, with every intention to sleep until the very last second possible.  
  
_6.19.04 / Regular disclaimers apply / Queen Anne_


	2. Portrait Perfect

_Chapter two: Portrait Perfect_  
  
It had been an extremely odd day for the professor, as days tended to be at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft & Wizardry. Despite the fact that the school year was only a week old, "interesting & exceptional" events were still quite the norm at the renowned school—or so Albus Dumbledore had just put it.  
  
"Bloody hell this is 'interesting and exceptional'," his fellow professor, a certain other ex-Auror by the name of Draco Malfoy, complained bitterly to Harry as they tried to extract a very frightened second year from the confines of a stairwell portrait.  
  
"Oh, Malfoy, shut up. You're scaring the life out of the little wimp," Harry whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Draco smirked and aimed his wand.  
  
"_Extracto_," Draco drawled calmly, but his expression changed drastically, to say the least, as, in a flash, he was sucked inside the portrait as well. Looking disoriented for a moment, Draco turned to see the frightened second year being smothered in another hug from Olive the Overbearing (though many students—and professors—just called her Olive the Over-Endowed.) Draco let out another groan and a second "bloody _hell_" for good measure.  
  
"Malfoy, I'm content to sit here and watch your torture. It's kind of like an Unforgivable..." Harry said as Olive spotted her newest pet, "...but a whole hell of a lot more entertaining."  
  
Dumbledore, passing by, gave a stern look to the two professors, one who was seething as the other laughed, and clearly said "oh, do let them out, Olive," as he walked by. Suddenly, and with no more than a squeal of disappointment from the overly buxom Olive, Draco and the quivering second year fell from the portrait. The student ran off hurriedly, and Draco stood to dust himself off in silence.  
  
"Oh, do shove it, Potter," he said after a minute or two of quiet. The laughter that was once again welling up inside of Harry broke free, and he gasped for breath dramatically as Draco scowled. "Honestly, Potter, I've lessons to plan. And you, of course, have nothing to do, because you're a classless wonder—every pun intended."  
  
"Thanks, Malfoy. Nice to know the professors support one another," Harry said with a smirking grin as they parted ways, and he headed back to his room.  
  
It had been an odd experience to teach at Hogwarts, but not an entirely unwelcome one, Harry mused as his footsteps echoed down the corridor. Finally stopping in front of Hermione Granger-Weasley's portrait—it guarded the passage to the House Elf quarters—he tapped once or twice on the canvas. No Hermione appeared, and he sighed.  
  
"Hermione? You've only two portraits, where are you?" He waited, and tapped his foot a few times, and thought about saying hi to her later, but remembered that he did have real business with the woman. Finally, in a huff, she showed up.  
  
"What's the problem today, Harry? You know, you could just as easily owl me at home, or even floo to work. It's not that big of an ordeal..." she said in the stern, wifely tone that Harry recognized from as far back as first year.  
  
"What did you get Ginny? I've got no idea what to get her, but I know she'll want something good. Always does, the darn imp," Harry complained with a smile. Hermione pulled out her day planner and thumbed through the pages.  
  
"Let's see...I do believe I got her...oh, that's right, I got her the Floo Protectant Powder." Hermione's present was announced with a self- satisfied smile, and Harry only balked.  
  
"The girl's 27th birthday and you get her Floo...whatsit?"  
  
"Floo Protectant Powder," Hermione repeated, as if it were the most obvious gift in the world. "It's a type of Floo powder that creates a dust ward over you when you floo. That way, you don't end up looking like you slept in a giant dustpan every time. Oh, someone's giving a tour at the Ministry. I'd best be in my other portrait for that. Bye, Harry!" With that, she walked off, and Harry started back to his rooms, contemplating (grudgingly, of course) the benefits that could surely be had from protectant floo powder.  
  
The staff quarters were accessed through a giant tapestry, one which wove and unraveled itself over and over again. As Harry tugged on the bottom, right-most red silk thread, the tapestry once again unraveled and rewove as it created braids to walk through. Letting them swing behind him, he heard the familiar _messssh_ as the threads rewound around each other. The main room was warm, no doubt with help from the crackling fire than burned in the larger-than-life fireplace. Noticing that no one else was there—somehow he doubted they were _all_ planning lessons, like Draco—Harry turned to the second stair case to the right (or the ninth one from the left, if you started on the opposite side and made your way around the circular Great Room) and his heels clicked quickly as he made his way up the stone steps. At the top of the stairs he paused, his hand clasping his wand, and stood with his back against the wall. _Once an Auror, always an Auror, even if I do take a year off for Dumbledore,_ he thought, bracing himself and casting a quiet _Lumos_ to light his room's corners and shadows.  
  
Rounding the corner, Harry put his wand away with some slight chagrin, noticing that the sound was just that of a hooting owl—Molly Weasley's newest—that was sharing the windowsill with Hedwig. _First things first, I s'pose_, Harry mused, and he fed them both. Then, taking Mrs. Weasley's letter, he read:  
  
_Dear Harry,  
Don't forget about lunch. I know you won't. Also, just a reminder that  
it's Ginny's party today. See you soon,  
  
Molly  
_  
Of course he wouldn't forget Sunday lunch at the Weasley's, nor had he forgotten that it was Ginny's birthday. He had, however, not had any time to get her a gift, something that annoyed him only slightly when he thought about the time spent un-jinxing students, teaching time turning, chasing rebellious house elves and removing students—and Draco—from ridiculously stupid predicaments.  
  
"Who knew that 'Specialized Magic' was going to be so..._huh_...oh," Harry trailed off, and grabbed the return letter that Hedwig held up impatiently. It was a reply from Ron, no doubt, and he quickly unfurled it, squinting at the chicken scratch writing.  
  
_Harry,  
What're you getting Gin? I've no idea what to get her, and Mione won't  
let me get her a Cannons poster and Every Flavor Beans—don't  
know why. She's getting her some stupid Floo Putrid Protester,  
or some such nonsense. Don't forget to get her something,  
though, because you remember what happened to me last year when  
I did. --Ron  
_  
Harry laughed and put the letter down on the red, four-poster bed that was remarkably similar to the ones in the Gryffindor dormitories. The clocks on the wall were a confusing mass of information—London: rainy, Quidditch match: none, Hedwig: Harry's quarters, Ron: fighting with Hermione, Weasleys: Chaos, Next Lesson: Legilimens, Hermione: fighting with Ron, Dumbledore: who knows...  
  
"Time, time..." Harry said aloud, noticing that the only clock that served its true purpose—the literal clock—was, once again, stuck on 1:27 a.m. He rummaged around in the wardrobe to no avail, flinging aside the many robes that were hanging up, until he got somewhat worried that he would get lost in them. Finally, the pocket watch was found in the top drawer of his bureau, in last Friday's pair of blue jeans, which he subsequently looked at, shrugged, and tugged on after taking off his black slacks.  
  
Harry ran his fingers through his dark hair, pulling the tangles out of the still long, still unmalleable mess, and flipped through the wardrobe again, finding an only-somewhat wrinkled button down shirt. The last time he wore a t-shirt to a Sunday lunch, he received eight equally...unique sweaters from Mrs. Weasley in less than a week. Shuddering at the memory, Harry glanced at the time...9:30...and lifted his wand to Apparate into Diagon Alley.  
  
_6.21.04 / Regular Disclaimers Apply / Queen Anne_


	3. Marital Bliss

_Chapter three: Marital Bliss_  
  
There was a ridiculously annoying woman who was carrying around three armloads of robes, and, at last count, she'd run over Hermione Granger- Weasley at least three times. Once again, Hermione realized with horror, the Mack truck of Gladrags shoppers was only two racks away, and closing fast. She cut across the aisle in sheer terror, and, with disaster narrowly averted, breathed a sigh of relief. She grabbed the new robe overcoat that Ron was having altered and started toward the young, gum- popping teenage witch at the register.  
  
"Hello," she greeted warmly, folding the repackaged coat over her crooked arm. "Just this one. Alteration, for Weasley," Hermione added, still reveling in how nice the name felt, rolling off of her tongue. Even though she had vehemently insisted on Granger-Weasley, she loved calling herself Mrs. Weasley. For the first time in her entire life, she let herself doodle _Mrs. Weasley_ and _Mrs. Hermione Weasley_ all over scrap paper in her office. Scrap paper that, of course, she burned in case Ron actually stopped by.  
  
"Uh...like, yeah," the teenager said, popping the gum loudly between her front teeth. Hermione winced, but smiled through it as the purple haired teenybopper flipped casually through a card file. "Let's see. Weasley, Weasley, Weasley. Ah, here it is." Hermione smiled brighter, thinking about the last name. "Oh, huh. Spelled kinda like Weasel! Funny, huh?" The smile faltered. Rather, the smile chilled, iced, and froze over.  
  
"Yes, funny how that happens" was said through gritted, now well- aligned and white teeth.  
  
"Well, gee, lady, it doesn't have any..." _Pop!  
_  
"It's twenty galleons."  
  
"But if the ticket don't say it, I don't..." _Pop!  
_  
"Tweeeenty galleons." Oh, damnation, Mack Truck barreling toward the register at an overloaded, breakneck pace...  
  
"How'dyou know?" _Pop! Pop!  
_  
"I know!" _Merlin,_ she was about to be obliterated. Hermione's life flashed before her eyes, and she barely stopped herself from melodramatically pleading "I want to _live_!" "Look, here's a twenty, put it in the register, smile, and I'll leave." With that, Hermione tossed the galleons on the counter and sidestepped Mack. The miserable feelings of guilt were beginning to creep up as she neared the doorway, when suddenly there was a deafening_ POP_ and Hermione, along with all the other shoppers, jumped in fright, before she realized it was the absolutely infuriating teen at the front. Gritting her teeth once again, Hermione banished all feelings of guilt from her mind and apparated to her house.  
  
With a similar pop, though one not quite as loud, Hermione landed nearly on Ron, who was preparing to Apparate himself.  
  
"Well, well, Mione, you should have asked me to stay home, dear, we could have put in a little quality time before lunch," her husband said, with that infuriating and impish grin, as she righted herself.  
  
"Oh, shove off, dear," Hermione replied with an equal smile, and dusted him off a bit as well. "Were you leaving for the Burrow already?" Typically, Sunday lunches began at noon and literally started at 12:30 or 1, and, thus, Hermione was shocked to see Ron apparating at 11:30—unheard of, for Sunday lunch. He usually lazed around until twelve fifteen, at which point Hermione grabbed him and _forced_ him to apparate with her, whether he wanted to or not.  
  
"I was going to apparate to Gladrags, see if you'd found anything for me to give Gin. You were getting home a little late for your usual 'be ready an hour early' routine," Ron remarked, rolling his eyes. Hermione held up the robe overcoat, and smiled sweetly.  
  
"No, darling, but I did pick up your coat. And now _you_ can hang it up in the hall closet," she directed, pointing to the other end of the foyer. "But you can go yourself, on the way, and pick her up something." Hermione paused. "That is _not_ a piece of Cannons merchandise, or any size box of Every Flavor Beans." Ron's face fell, and she pointedly look at the vastly oversized, decorative clock that hung on the wall. She had enchanted the classic timepiece to also show the day's schedule for the two as well. "In fact, I expected you would do this...you always do this, Ronald Weasley..." She trailed off at his "who, me?" grin, and gave him a light kiss on the lips, which Ron took considerably farther.  
  
Ron's kisses still gave Hermione chills along her spine. _Hell,_ she admitted in her mind, as Ron made quick work of divesting his wife of shopping bags and her purse, _just thinking about kissing him gives me chills. The kisses themselves are on a whole separate lev..._  
  
All thoughts were cut off abruptly as the Quidditch player's physical dexterity came through—once again—and he swept Hermione up into his arms and carried her toward the closest soft surface, the overstuffed living room sofa. Oddly enough, the sofa was used incredibly often since they'd gotten married, but that thought escaped notice for a good half an hour.  
  
However, there was much more to consider when all was said and done (_Literally_, Hermione smirked with satisfaction). They had picked up the clothes, bags and sofa cushions when Hermione finally took sane note of what time it was.  
  
"Oh damn, Ron, it's noon already. You're never going to get Ginny a present now. Come on, go comb your hair and brush your teeth—and put on a better shirt!—and we'll go." Hermione sent Ron off to the master bedroom, and checked to make sure his overcoat was hung up in the closet; he'd need it when the Cannons played in Scotland next month. Straightening her summery black dress, Hermione stuck her hair into her favorite hairstyle—the always convenient ponytail—and smoothed the stray hairs as Ron re-emerged.  
  
"Ready to go, dear?" Ron asked, coming very close and nipping at her neck before Hermione grinned and pushed him away.  
  
"Look, I knew this would happen, so I picked you up a gift to get Ginny. And I signed your name to the card—looks like yours, you lucky dog—and I wrapped it with mine."  
  
"Oh, see, Mione, I told you, I don't need to do anything, you just do it for me._ Great_, isn't it?" Ron grinned cheekily, grabbed hold of her arm, and apparated them both in a flash.  
  
"RONALD WEASLEY!" There was a great crack, and suddenly, suspended in space and time, Ron & Hermione came to a screeching halt. Ron gaped at her, then around, in disbelief.  
  
"Ron, shut your mouth before you choke on your own spit again."  
  
"Before I...one time! _One time that happened_!" Ron objected, and closed his mouth while looking, wide-eyed, around them. "Mione, what did you do? Did you...did you _stop apparition_?!"  
  
"Well damnit, Ron, you're such a prat! I'm taking the present back right now!" Frustration welled up inside of Hermione, and the words 'long suffering' and 'poor dear' raced across her wistful imagination.  
  
"Hermione, you can't stop apparition because you're pissed at me!"  
  
"Ron! Language!"  
  
"Oh Merlin, woman, you're the only damned person I can think of who stops space and time to fight!"  
  
That shut Hermione up, and for the first time, she gazed at the frozen, blurred world around them. "Oh..._huh_." She tried to touch the tunnel-like walls of space around them, and Ron slapped her hand away instantly.  
  
"Good God, Hermione, do you want to destroy the world? Who knows what bloody trouble we could get into for this...stupid...gads, woman!"  
  
"Oh, what trouble, Ron? I'm the secretary of Muggle relations, aren't I?" But Hermione's wand came out, and the lightening fast whirl of space and time shot them straight into the Burrow's crowded kitchen. Molly and Ginny looked at them, surprised, and Ron rolled his eyes in annoyance and stalked off, muttering something about stupid wives and bloody couch cushions.  
  
Ginny & Molly turned to look at her, daughter- and sister-in-law, with deliciously curious expressions on their faces. Hermione considered her options, then caved with a shrug.  
  
"Don't look at me. It's Ron's fault."  
  
They both nodded with sympathy, and Molly handed Hermione strawberries to prepare. Easily, the standard Sunday lunch fell into a rhythm all its own for the Weasleys...by birth and otherwise...who were in the Burrow that day.  
  
_6.22.04 / Regular Disclaimers Apply / Queen Anne_


End file.
